


As Many Souls As Stars

by laideur



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Light BDSM, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), They love each other, aziraphale's bedroom, tying up your demon and telling him he is loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur/pseuds/laideur
Summary: Crowley is afraid he’s tempting Aziraphale to do things against his will, so Aziraphale magically conjures his demon to prove that he’s not.Because I’ve seen enough of those fics where Aziraphale has a fantasy about Crowley tying him up and I wanted to see it the other way around.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 275
Collections: Aziraphale/Crowley Smut Library





	As Many Souls As Stars

The bookshop was open, but they were kissing in the back of it. It was disgusting. Any customer who came in would have been appalled. Aziraphale wished he had thought of this tactic years ago.

But kissing was one thing, and he did have some sense of propriety. 

“I could close up for lunch,” he murmured against Crowley’s neck. “Draw the blinds. We haven’t done it in the mystery section yet.”

Crowley exhaled a shaky breath. “Only if you want to.” 

Aziraphale leaned back. “Do you want to?”

“Yes, of course, always, it’s ridiculous how much I--but only if you do.”

Aziraphale, who had had this conversation before, made a face. “We cannot keep going ‘round and ‘round like this.”

“The thing is, I want you to be sure. I never want it to feel like I'm,” Crowley waved his hands as if he could communicate the words via semaphore and not have to say them out loud, “tempting you.” 

“Is that what you’ve been worried about? My dear, you can’t tempt me to do something I don’t want to do.”

“How do you know? And what if I’m doing it accidentally?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, poised on some withering remark about Crowley’s hubris, but his demon was clearly in emotional distress, and his heart softened. He took Crowley's hands in his. “Is there anything we can do to make sure that isn’t happening?”

“Maybe.” 

How could Crowley explain? That first time, the night after the world didn’t end, had been frantic, overwhelming in its intensity, millennia of unspoken need bubbling to the surface and inundating them both. Crowley remembered, mortifyingly, breaking down in tears in the middle of his kitchen, but then feeling Aziraphale’s arms around and his lips on his face, and they had been so overcome with emotion they’d ended up floating several feet off the floor. But since then, since the confessions and discoveries and sheer scintillating bliss of being able to finally, finally hold the angel in his arms, the hunger had only grown for being fed. He’d never thought this far ahead, was the problem. Getting his greatest wish seemed to have unleashed something that could not be satisfied. Every glance or touch was enough to have his entire body vibrating like a tuning fork. But what did that mean for Aziraphale? Crowley may be a demon, the original temptor, progenitor of sin, but he was a gentleman, bless it all. God and/or Satan forbid he ever put any unwelcome pressure on Aziraphale. Sure, when the angel wanted something of the carnal variety Crowley was willing to bend over backwards--quite literally, on one occasion--to indulge him. After lifetimes of watching Aziraphale second guessing himself and looking over his shoulder there was nothing Crowley would allow him to feel guilty about. Any desire, no matter how maudlin, was granted. But it had to be on the angel’s own terms. 

+++

When it finally happened, Crowley was sitting at home futzing around on social media. He was retired now, so there was no need to pretend to Hell that verified accounts had been his idea, but he hoped some enterprising young demon somewhere was following in his footsteps. He was about to post an incendiary and grammatically incorrect political screed when he felt something he hadn't felt in nearly five hundred years. At first he thought his phone was ringing, but the noise he heard was a voice, and the voice was saying, “I conjure ye, I conjure ye.” There was an over all tugging feeling, like his body was being pulled in some direction outside the three earthly spatial dimensions. Then his bedroom faded out and Aziraphale’s bedroom faded in, and he fell over because there was nothing to sit on any more.

Crowley’s bedroom was a cube of glass and concrete. It was modern and airy. Aziraphale’s was neither. It was a narrow and high ceilinged affair of wood panelling, mullioned windows, William Morris wallpaper, plaster friezes, and crown moulding as intricate as the inner machinations of the angel’s mind. It was cluttered with snow drifts of books, marble statuettes and porcelain vases filled with dried flowers and reeds, stacked with shelves of precious miscellany. Velvet and gold tasseled cushions were strewn across the floor with the overall effect of a Victorian seraglio and was, the angel insisted, an excellent place to settle in with a good book. Whenever Crowley went up there he wondered what sort of bedrooms Azriaphale had seen to get the idea that this was what one ought to look like, and had half a mind to fish the ghosts of Huysmans and Pater and every last decadent aesthete bastard out of Hell and ask them, was it necessary? Was it worth it? The problem was, though, that all the watered silk cushions and amber light and subtle scents of incense tended to suck him in like quicksand and soon he was too boneless and hypnotised by the twisting branches of fruit tree wallpaper to complain about anything. 

But right now Crowley was sitting on the floor at the foot of the four poster bed. The Turkish rug had been rolled up and put aside, and a complex geometrical design chalked on the bare wooden floor. It was dark, lit only by scattered candles. Aziraphale was reclining in a divan chair in front of him, wearing a chalcedony blue dressing gown and silk slippers. He was smoking a cigarette. Beside him was a book open to a heavily annotated diagram of a summoning circle.

“Demon, I have summoned thee,” he said.

“So you have,” said Crowley, picking himself up. “Is there anything I can help you with?” 

Aziraphale puffed his cigarette, looking at him sidelong from under heavy lashes. “I require your infernal services.” 

“How might I service you, O mighty sorcerer? Turn lead into gold? Reveal the secrets of the cosmos? Run around the world and come back with panang?”

Aziraphale bent one knee so the sides of the dressing gown fell apart, exposing one perfectly rounded calf. Crowley had the urge to bite it. 

“I have a profound need of some assistance from demonic powers. Mortals simply aren’t up to the task. And I can’t be troubling myself with any passing demon. I’m very particular, you see.” 

“My desire is to serve.” Crowley was entranced by the perfect pink seashell hand curled around the cigarette. Smoke hung heavy in the air, frankincense and something else he couldn’t put his finger on. He felt like a warm blanket was cocooning his senses. 

“I command thee in the name of the angel whose power I invoke--”

“Which angel is that?”

“Me. I command thee to do as I say, obey my every word.” 

Crowley felt a flush rise to his face. “Yes, angel.” He knew, on some level, that it was a game. They had talked about this. But there was something in Aziraphale’s voice that reminded him that he was a very powerful occult force, indeed. It made him a little hot under the collar.

“Now, what form shall I have you take, dear demon?”

“Form?”

“To pleasure me. Perhaps a bull. Or a stallion. We could both be snakes and twist around each other. We could both be women. No, I think I like you in the shape of a man. Keep the body on.” He took another long drag on his cigarette and waved his free hand languidly. ”Please remove your clothing.” 

“Yes, angel.” It may have been the incense in the air, the low warmth of the candles, or his steady hypnotic voice, but Crowley felt as if he was slowly slipping under a spell. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it behind him. There was a tinkle of glass as it snagged on some horrible boudoir lamp. He tugged off his jeans and kicked them off to the side. He removed his shoes.

Aziraphale watched silently, a small smirk on his cupid’s bow mouth, eyelids drooping, face wreathed in fragrant smoke, giving him the appearance of a debauched cherub, which he rather was. “You have beautiful feet.” 

“They’re monstrous.” 

Aziraphale dropped the end of his cigarette into a tall vase and stood up. The dressing gown was not tied and the sides fell open, revealing his soft belly, his perfectly sculpted sex, the gold hair that curled around it like gilt acanthus on marble. It was only a few months ago that, for the privilege of this view, Crowley would have contrived to bring the angel his own head on a plate. 

Aziraphale padded lightly into the circle. Crowley was entranced by the sway of his hips and found himself swaying a little in response, in some latent snake instinct. Aziraphale walked around him, gliding his fingers across the span of his shoulders and down the curve of his spine. He softly pressed himself against Crowley’s back. The angel dragged his lips over his neck, shoulder, where his dark wings weren’t. Crowley felt the gentle push of his growing arousal against the cleft of his buttocks. One hand came around and stroked the hair on his chest, then slid up around his throat where it squeezed, just a little, sending a surge of heat to his loins. 

“How dare you contradict me,” Aziraphale whispered, breath against his ear. Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s throat and held his arms out in front of them. 

“Conjure me a scarf.” 

Crowley blinked slowly and rolled his head to the side. Across Aziraphale’s palms appeared a length of iridescent black and scarlet silk embroidered with gold thread in a shimmering pattern of scales. Aziraphale rolled the scarf into a thin rope and tied it over Crowley’s mouth with a knot at the back of his head. 

“I didn’t go through all the trouble of summoning my very own demon just to be contradicted so rudely.”

He spun Crowley around to face him. 

“No more of that, do you understand?”

Crowley nodded. 

“Very good. Go lie down on the bed, please.” 

Crowley climbed onto the bed and insinuated his skinny frame into the mountain of cushions. He looked around him as if he expected to see chains hanging from the bedposts. 

“There will be no need for those,” said Aziraphale, reading his thoughts from long practice. He toed off his slippers and let the dressing gown slip from his shoulders in a whisper of silk. Then he crawled onto the bed beside Crowley. 

He reached toward the end table and picked up a felt tipped pen. Taking Crowley’s hand, he drew a series of glyphs around his wrist, then laid his hand on the bed beside him. “Try and lift it.”

Crowley wiggled his fingers. He might be able to if he tried very hard, but it was like having a weight attached to his wrist.

“Excellent.” Aziraphale did the same with his other hand, then shuffled down the bed to kneel at Crowley’s feet. He lifted Crowley's scaly clawed foot and gently pressed his lips to the instep. Crowley made a soft and undignified noise. He closed his eyes bracing for some sort of retaliation, but only felt a tickle as Aziraphale drew with the pen around his ankle and laid his foot down, then did the same with the other. He was just starting to get his composure back as the angel settled between his knees, stroking his hands up his thighs. Then Aziraphale’s hand was around his cock. 

Honestly, quite a lot of people had, over the millennia, touched his cock, or whatever he had down there at the time, and it had been alright, but rather underwhelming to the point he began to wonder if he’d hooked it up wrong. But Azirpahale was the only one who made him feel like his blood had turned to chocolate fondue. And it wasn’t even the touching so much as the knowledge that Aziraphale chose to put his perfect plump shapely hands on him, of all people.

“Most importantly,” said Aziraphale. Then, piling indignity upon indignity, he drew a glyph on the base of it. It tickled terribly, but did nothing to change the fact that Crowley was now achingly inconsolably erect. “This will also stay in place until I’m done with it.” 

Crowley looked down his body at the bonds. They glowed faintly with a sort of golden-violet non-light at the very edge of his vision. He felt invisible tendrils spreading out from the glyphs encircling his body. There really was no need for chains. He quirked an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

“It’s remarkable what one picks up from books,” said the angel as he capped the pen, as if binding demons was a hobby one casually picked up like playing the ukulele.

Aziraphale put the pen back, and Crowely felt warm soft thighs straddling him. Aziraphale trailed his fingers over Crowley’s chest, his shoulders, down his arms. He stroked the thin skin on the inside of his elbows, the indentations between his ribs. “What a wonderful creation.” Crowley made a noise behind the gag. 

“You may not argue,” Aziraphale reminded him. He leaned forward and laid them chest to chest, belly to belly. He ghosted his lips over Crowley’s, parted as they were by the gag.

“Kiss me.”

Crowley did, to the best of his ability. 

“Kiss me again.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice. Crowley smiled despite himself. 

“Now,” continued Aziraphale, sitting back. “About that infernal service.” He hovered above Crowley’s hips, bracketing him with his thighs. 

Aziraphale held his hands cupped in front of him. “Conjure me some oil.” 

Crowley blinked and a golden pool of fluid poured from the ether into Aziraphales hands. It smelled a little of cedar. Aziraphale warmed the oil in his hands then reached down and began massaging it onto Crowley, and onto himself, and with a wide grasp the two of them together. Crowley could do nothing but lie in place as he was rutted against. It felt oddly transgressive, to be a passive witness to the angel’s toying with him. “I think I’d like this here,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, and Crowley felt those thighs spread around him, and felt his cock begin to sink into tight velvety warmth. 

His hands twitched as he tried to reach toward Aziraphale, but he was pinned down like an insect, tied up, mute, at the angel’s mercy, and was loving it utterly. Being the angels’s dildo for the rest of eternity didn’t sound like a bad gig, he thought frantically. 

And what a meticulous indulgence the angel was making of him, slowly by degrees, taking him in as he stroked himself. Crowley’s mind was a whirlwind, a fire devil, watching the angel take his time. And when Aziraphale finally had him, fit to his contours of his body, and began moving his hips slowly in little figure eights, Crowley moaned in relief. His head thrashed from side to side. His entire body and soul were focussed to a single point like a lightning rod, upon which the angel was gasping out small noises of pleasure. Crowley had that feeling again of intruding on a private moment, of watching with delight his own use, as Aziraphale sighed, made his little mmph! sounds he always whenever he was experiencing some carnal delight, like tasting a fancy cake or putting on finely woven clothing, or, or--or riding up and down a demon’s cock like a carousel animal. The angel enjoyed things so thoroughly and vocally, and when he enjoyed Crowley, it made him feel somewhat like he was finally fulfilling his purpose. He wondered if the cake felt the same way. 

Did humans ever notice how indecent those noises were, Crowley wondered, or did Aziraphale sigh at an extraplanar frequency only he could hear? The angel was far better at inspiring lust than he gave himself credit for. Crowley had let him try it, a few hundred years into the Arrangement, only after Aziraphale had badgered him about his seven deadly sin quotas. And then Beelzebub had given him a gold star on the report. Aziraphale had never told him exactly what he did, only made some comment about meeting quotas for divine ecstasy and killing two birds with one stone. 

Azriaphale was getting a little unsteady now and Crowley was digging his heels into the bed, anticipating his climax, when suddenly the angel stopped. He slowly lifted himself off of Crowley’s body. Crowley shivered from the lost stimulation.

“You’re doing excellent work, demon.” Aziraphale pulled the gag out of his mouth. His tongue had gone a bit forked in the interim, and when he opened his mouth he smelled and tasted all the scents of them, human and inhuman at once. Aziraphale was crawling up the bed, and settled his knees on either side of Crowley’s head. 

Crowley made a low aching groan of desire, opening his mouth wide, wide as a snake in human form could open, and extending his unnatural tongue to lick and take him into his throat. Aziraphale gasped as Crowley swallowed him, rubbed his tongue along the underside of his length. Crowley moaned around him in response, swallowing down the salt taste and beading drips of desire. 

Aziraphale fisted a hand in his hair and Crowley moaned around him. Under normal circumstances he could have finished like this, if not for the fucking Enochian cock ring Aziraphale had drawn on him. What was it about having his head crushed between the angel’s pillowy thighs that made him unravel? Ever since the thrice damned invention of trousers, every time the angel bent over it was all Crowley could do to resist dropping prayerfully to his knees behind him and shoving his face into his arse. He’d owned a “Free Mustache Rides” t-shirt for one week in the 1970s, but had banished it to the infernal pits of Hell from embarrassment after he’d made eye contact with Aziraphale while wearing it, convinced that the angel had read his desires like a billboard. 

Crowley never wanted to spend much time in cathedrals until he learned what sorts of paintings were going up in those places, gleaned the slightest inkling of the acres of rose-tinted angelic flesh on display. And he didn’t know which one of them to blame for the phenomenon. How many artists throughout the ages had seen and copied his angel? Was it Crowley’s influence? Projecting his desires onto all these unsuspecting mortals? Or had it been Aziraphales’ charms alone? He tried to remember exactly how Aziraphale had described his divine inspiration assignments and whether it involved exposing his sacral dimples. All throughout the 16th century, just thinking of whatever sort of lecherous displays Aziraphale had been subjecting them to, made him blind with lust. He’d had to leave Italy to cool off.

Just as Crowley was anticipating the thrill of discorporating from asphyxiation Aziraphale moved away again, pulling Crowley’s head back by his hair. He gasped like a drowning man. They looked at each other for a moment, Crowley with marigold yellow eyes and wide pupils, swollen mouth hanging open, panting, chin slick with spit and oil and precum, Aziraphale flushed pink as a peach, with a mussed halo of curls, darker a the roots and clinging to his forehead with sweat. 

“Wassa alright?” Crowley slurred. 

“Yes, you’re too good at that,” Aziraphale panted. 

Aziraphale moved down the bed again and Crowley writhed against his bonds. He grasped the sheets in his hands, stretched his neck against the pillows. He was an instrument for Aziraphale to play, and was being played, perfect ABA structure, and so on, as long as the angel wanted. 

Aziraphale shivered suddenly and smiled. “Ooh, I felt that.” 

“Uhn?” said Crowley

“That wave of love.” 

“Nh.” Wonderful, he was leaking. Leaking in a few ways, to be frank. But the fog of lust clouding his senses was too dense for him to care. 

“You’re ringing like a bell, my darling demon.” 

“Your demon. All yours,” he said thicky. 

When Aziraphale took his cock into his body again it was somehow hotter and slicker than before. Crowley moaned. He was going to combust. He would immolate himself. He dug his heels and shoulders into the bed for leverage and canted his hips. Aziraphale’s head rolled back as he rode him. It was devastating. The angel was incandescent, stroking himself, taking his pleasure in Crowley’s paltry form while his wrists were metaphysically chained to the bed, holding on for dear life. Crowley was in thrall, a piteous small legless armless bellycrawling creature caught in the tide of the angel’s desire. 

“I’ll be your demon. Use me for. Use me for whatever you want,” he choked out, words running together, barely coherent. “Nothing you want can be bad. Use me for something good, please.” 

“It’s alright, my dear. Focus on me. Who is in control right now?”

“You are.”

“And do you feel as though you are tempting me right now?”

“No.”

“I love you, Crowley.”

“Oh--” 

“So much. Even the things that aren’t tempting. I love you when you are sleeping and drooling on my sofa cushions, and I love you when you’re excited and telling me about some new scheme to annoy everyone who owns a cell phone, and I love...your feet, and how you break out in scales when you get overwhelmed.”

Crowley, who had been doing well in that regard up until this point, felt the tell-tale prickle of scales creeping across his torso. But the angel was still moving on him, grinding him into the bed.

“And I love your eyes and your mouth and your fashionable hairdos. And I love fucking you, which is something I will never be ashamed of.” 

If not for the bond Airapahle had drawn on him Crowley would have finished right then, but he still saw flashes of light behind his eyes and choked and writhed incoherently. 

“Oh, angel, I love you, too. Please. I know. I’ve been very silly.” 

Aziraphale laughed. He laughed with Crowley’s cock inside of him and the sensation made Crowley’s eyes roll back in his head. 

“You can’t tempt love, my darling.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the ink glyphs vanished from Crowley’s skin. 

His whole body convulsed. His arms flew around Aziraphale’s waist, spidery hands clawing at his plush arse and thighs. Everything had been a tantalizing torture up until then. He had to touch, had to feel his flesh under his hands, that gloriously soft and impossibly strong body. They rolled together and Crowley moaned long and deep like he’d been wounded. He was coming undone at the seams, only held together by Aziraphale’s hands clutching him, nails dragging against his skin, urging him on, harder, faster. He felt his angel clench around him and spill across his belly the essence of his earthly body, as he threw his head back and cried his name up at Heaven. 

There was a burst of white light and Crowley lost track of things for a while. When his vision cleared, his arms were full of angel. The bonds had vanished. He entwined their legs, laid his head against his breast. Aziraphale stroked his hair as he caught his breath, held him as the trembling subsided, as he always did, infinitely gentle and loving. 

“Demon, you are free now, and may depart at will.” 

Crowley snuggled against Aziraphale’s side. “Mmn in a bit. Maybe in the morning.” He slithered down under the blanket and pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s hip. “Feel free to conjure me any time, for whatever demonic service you need.” 

“I wasn’t too demanding?” 

“No. Not that I’d do that with any old necromancer. But most people summoning demons want shiny metals or super powers, or sex with people who aren’t me.” That Faust. What a horn dog. 

“There’s an idea.” Aziraphale sat up and raised his arms like he was addressing an audience. “Oh demon, I conjure and appeal to you, bring before me the loveliest most noble creature ever to walk upon the earth, that I might see him beside me.” He glanced back at Crowley. “Ah, you’ve done it! What a clever demon, to bring such a beautiful apparition to my bed.”

Crowley groaned and tugged him back down. “There’s usually a lot more contract negotiation up front. I didn’t even get to bargain for the rights to your soul.” 

“My dear, that would do you no good,” Aziraphale whispered. “You’ve already had it for ages.” 

Crowley went very still, then slowly looked up at him with wide glowing eyes. 

“Likewise, angel,”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a line in Marlowe's Doctor Faustus


End file.
